Almost Complete Short Fiction, page 12
“So you thought if they heard you were bringing in your own didahnvwisgi—” Jimmy had to laugh. “Boy,” he said, “now I’ve heard everything. The church asking a medicine man for help.”
If the preacher minded being redassed he didn’t let it show. He said, “Actually, I came to invite you to an all-night gospel singing. We’re having one this Friday night.”
Jimmy quit laughing. The preacher had hit one of his weak spots. He might be a long way outside the church, but he dearly loved Cherokee gospel music. Both his parents had been noted singers on the Oklahoma gospel scene; his older brother Clyde had sung with them, before running off to become a honky-tonk musician. Some of Jimmy’s earliest memories were of all-night singings, and of falling asleep in the back of the family pickup to the sound of gospel music coming through the trees.
He said, “Real old-fashioned Indian gospel? Not that fancy new crap, sounds like they’re planning to go to Heaven in an elevator?”
The preacher nodded. “Should be a lot of good singers there.”
“I thought you said people were staying away.”
“They won’t if they know you’re going to be there.”
Jimmy didn’t know what to say to that.
“And,” the preacher added, “the women are baking pies.”
Jimmy groaned softly. Pie was his other weakness. “You got me,” he said. “What time do you want me there?”
The preacher stood up. “Come by the house about seven.” He was obviously trying hard not to look too pleased with himself. “We may as well go together.”
“Howa,” Jimmy agreed, getting up too. “You can tell them I’ll be there.”
Friday evening at almost exactly seven Jimmy Hominy stopped his old Mercury in front of Eli Blackbird’s house near the tiny crossroads community of Limestone. The preacher came to the door as Jimmy stepped up on the porch. “ ‘Siyo, Jimi.”
“ ‘Siyo, chooch.” Jimmy nodded in the direction of the Mercury. “Let’s take my car.” He didn’t want to ride in the preacher’s little Japanese car, which was cramped and uncomfortable for a man his size and had screwy door latches besides.
“Sure.” The preacher followed Jimmy out to the road and bent to open the Mercury’s door. The dome light came on and he stopped, staring at the oversized guitar case lying in the back seat. “Bringing that thing?” he said. “Going to play, are you?”
“Could be,” Jimmy said, going around to his side. “You never know.”
The church was a small, low concrete-block building with no steeple or other identifying features except a four-by-eight plywood sign that read LIMESTONE INDEPENDENT INDIAN CHURCH. The words were repeated underneath in the curling black letters of the Cherokee alphabet.
Right now the building was dark except for a single bulb burning above the front door. The big grassy clearing beside the church, however, was lit by several floodlights rigged on poles or in the trees. A flatbed truck had been parked at the edge of the woods to serve as a stage, and two men were crouched on its bed doing something to a set of amplifiers, while a tall kid in a Seminole jacket fooled with the tuning knobs of an electric bass. Teenage boys were setting out rows of folding chairs. Other people stood or moved about the area, mostly near the long wooden tables where women served food on paper plates.
“I thought we’d have the singing outdoors,” the preacher remarked as they got out of the Mercury. The dusty parking area was already half full of pickup trucks and heavy old cars. “Looks like a nice night for it.”
It did. The sky was clear and full of fat white stars; a light warm breeze was coming through the woods, bringing various pleasant smells. It also carried the scent of blackberry pie from the tables. Jimmy’s nose began to twitch.
“Well,” the preacher said, “I better get up there.” He gestured in the direction of the flatbed truck, where one of the men was now adjusting a floor-stand microphone. A brief horrible squeal came from the speakers. “Almost time.”
When the preacher was gone Jimmy stood still for a moment, getting the feel of the scene. So far he couldn’t detect anything wrong; at least the hair on his arms wasn’t standing up, or his fingers tingling, or any of the other warning signs. If this place had been witched, it had been done very badly.
Or else, of course, it had been done very well.
He began to walk, staying in the shadows and avoiding people, making himself ignore the pie smell. As he neared the darkened church he started to pick up a certain vague sourness, like a single out-of-tune string. More curious than worried—whatever it was, it didn’t feel dangerous—he moved closer.
He found it easily, under the front steps of the church: a little buckskin bundle, tied with rawhide. Dry things crunched and crackled as he rolled it in his hand. He didn’t untie it; he knew pretty much what it contained. He walked back to his car and tossed the little bundle onto the front seat. Later, maybe, he would tie the bundle to a rock and drop it into a moving stream, and then whoever had made it would come down with severe chills for a week or so.
If this was the worst the Sparrowhawks could do, the preacher was worrying about nothing. Still, he was here now and he might as well do the job right.
He dug in his pockets and got out his short-stemmed pipe and the little bag of prepared tobacco, while up on the improvised stage Eli Blackbird commenced speaking into the microphone, welcoming the people who were now starting to drift over and take seats. The men behind him quit messing with the amps and began opening cases and getting out guitars.
Jimmy packed the tobacco carefully into the pipe, making sure not to spill a single flake. He did not sing or speak over the tobacco; there was no need. He had doctored the tobacco that morning, down by the banks of the little creek that ran behind his place, holding it up to the rising sun and stirring it with his forefinger, singing the appropriate igawesdi words, four times over. Now the tobacco was programmed, needing only to be burned to release its power.
He lit the tobacco and began walking, puffing. The preacher was now leading the crowd in “Amazing Grace”:
“U-ne-hla-nv-hi U-we-ji
I-ga-gu-yv-he-i—”
Blowing smoke, Jimmy Hominy circled the church grounds counterclockwise, taking in the building and the singing area and even the two outhouses. The preacher began a prayer in Cherokee: “Agidoda, galvladi ehi, galvquodiyu gesesdi dejado’a’i—” He was still at it when Jimmy started around for the second time.
He circled the grounds four times, following carefully in his own tracks. He was aware of people looking at him—mostly sideways or behind his back—but nobody spoke to him, and the few people in his path suddenly found reasons to go stand somewhere else when they saw him coming.
At the end he knocked the ash out of the pipe and stood leaning on the Mercury’s fender, listening to the music. The first group of the evening, the Gospel Travelers from Adair County, were hammering down hard on “I Will Not Live Always”:
“U-tli-na-qua-du-li-hv ga-lv-la-di jo-sv-i,
Ga-lo-ne-dv Ji-sa, u-wo-dti-hi-yu,
Da-ni-no-gi-sdi-sgv-i.”
—with skinny little Grover Fourkiller singing bass like a son of a bitch and Louise Soap hitting the highs clean as an Arkansas mockingbird.
Jimmy decided it was time to check out that blackberry pie.
It had been a good season for blackberries and two different women had just set out fresh pies as Jimmy came up to the table. Naturally he had to have a piece of each, so as not to hurt anybody’s feelings. He was finishing the second piece when a voice behind him said, “ ‘Siyo, Jimi. Jiyosihas?”
Jimmy jumped and turned around. Idabel Grasshopper stood there, holding a big steaming pot. She said, “Want to try some of my chili, big boy?”
Jimmy had never considered that Idabel Grasshopper might show up. A lifelong member of Hogshooter Indian Baptist Church, she was a long way from home. But maybe she’d heard he was coming. Damn that preacher.
He said, “I think maybe your chili’s too hot for me.”
Idabel Grasshopper giggled and Jimmy made a note to kick himself in the ass, next time he felt limber enough, for encouraging her. As far back as he could remember, her two big goals in life had been to get Jimmy Hominy into the church and into her bed—preferably, but not necessarily, in that order. Change of life hadn’t helped; in the last few years she’d just gotten holier and hornier. She’d also picked up about forty pounds and a Don Ameche mustache.
“And here you are at a gospel singing,” she said. “Praise the Lord!”
“I just came to listen to the music,” Jimmy mumbled. Damn that preacher.
“The music,” she said severely, “doesn’t mean a thing without the spirit. Now in Philippians two-ten it says—”
But Jimmy was no longer even pretending to listen. Over the top of her Brillo-pad perm, he had spotted the Sparrowhawk brothers coming across the parking area.
He hadn’t seen either of them in years but they hadn’t improved any in the ugly department. Luther, the older brother, seemed to have a few more facial scars, but otherwise there wasn’t much difference between them; just a couple of lumpy, overgrown Indians, nearly as big as Jimmy, with hooky noses and eyes set way too close together.
All of a sudden, right at the edge of the grass, they stopped so hard they practically bounced.
Jimmy Hominy watched, ignoring Idabel, as they looked at each other and then tried again to cross the medicine line he had laid down. It was like watching a pair of big stupid birds flying into a plate-glass window.
Finally, looking pissed off, they turned and stomped back across the parking lot and got into a big pickup truck. A minute later they blasted out of the church grounds, throwing gravel. The crash of bad gear changes drifted back on the breeze as their lights disappeared up the road.
The preacher was standing over by the edge of the trees, smoking his pipe. “Did you see that?” he said as Jimmy came up. “Whatever you did, thanks—”
“Never mind that,” Jimmy told him. “I’m going to kill you. That hooting sound you hear is the owl calling your name.”
The preacher laughed softly. “Idabel’s still after you?”
“ ‘Big boy,’ ” Jimmy said, shuddering. “Nobody’s called me that since Saigon.”
Up on stage the Kingfisher Family were getting down with “Orphan Child’:
“Ja-ga-wi-yu-hi hna-quu ta-ti-hnu-ga di-je-na-sv
Ju-no-ye-ni-quu de-hi-ni-yv-se-sdi ni-go-hi-lv.”
“Come on,” the preacher said. “Let’s get some coffee. Going to be a long night.”
The night did take its time passing. Singers took their turns on stage, alone or by duets and trios and quartets, and most were at least reasonably good. Even the ones that weren’t came off sounding fairly decent, thanks to the backup. Homer Ninekiller and Dwight Badwater had been playing at gospel singings for twenty or thirty years, Homer with his old Les Paul Gibson electric and Dwight with his even older Martin D-28 Dreadnought flattop, and they were good enough to fill in the holes for the most raggedy-assed group. The kid on bass wasn’t in their class but he was okay, keeping up a steady boom-boom and not trying to show off.
The audience applauded and occasionally shouted amen or praise the Lord and now and then wandered off to the tables for pie and coffee. Little kids ran here and there chasing lightning bugs or just grabassing around, till at last the night got too long for them and they fell asleep in their mothers’ laps or in the back seats of cars.
Jimmy got himself a folding chair and found a place under a big oak tree where he could keep an eye on everything. He still wasn’t convinced it was over with the Sparrowhawks. It had been too easy and those two were known for their blind-mule stubbornness. But the hours rolled by and there was no further sign of them. When Jimmy’s watch showed midnight he felt sure this would be the time something would happen, but nothing did.
The preacher appeared out of the shadows. “Having a good time, Jimmy? I am, now I don’t have to worry about the Sparrowhawks.”
Jimmy grunted. It was now well after twelve by his watch and he was starting to think nothing was going to happen after all, but he still wasn’t ready to admit it.
On stage the musicians were into an instrumental break while the next singing group was called. Homer Ninekiller was doing amazing things to “He Will Set Your Fields On Fire” and Dwight Badwater and the kid in the Seminole jacket were loping right along with him. “Asp,” the preacher said as they finished.
“Picked that one and sent it home naked,” Jimmy agreed. “Who’s on next?”
“The Heaven-Bound Disciples.”
“Shit.”
“Please,” the preacher said reprovingly. “This is the Lord’s service.”
“Sorry,” Jimmy said. “But I bet that’s pretty much the Lord’s opinion too.”
The Heaven-Bound Disciples consisted of a loudmouthed preacher named Mason Littlebird, his incredibly fat wife, and their big-knockered teenage daughter. None of them could sing worth a damn and Mason Littlebird had a habit of preaching windy sermons, “witnessing” he called it, between songs. Watching Mavis Littlebird clambering up the ladder to the stage—the truck was already tilted over on its shocks from her mother’s weight—Jimmy decided this was a good time to take care of some increasingly urgent business.
“See you,” he told the preacher. “Got to visit the BIA office.”
There was somebody already inside the outhouse when Jimmy got there. He shrugged and stepped off into the trees. Fine Indian he’d be if he couldn’t even take a pee in the woods.
He gave a post-oak a good soaking down, hearing Mason Littlebird’s voice blaring through the trees: “And I used to be a sinner, a-men, I drank and gambled, praise the Lord, yes and I sinned with women, thank you Jesus—” Zipping up, he walked back out of the woods and managed to get himself a foam cup of black coffee without being spotted by Idabel Grasshopper, who was gazing toward the stage with a look of holy joy. Maybe, Jimmy thought hopefully, she’s getting the hots for Mason instead of me. Amen, praise the Lord, and thank you Jesus if she does.
He was finishing his coffee when it all began to happen.
The Heaven-Bound Disciples were into a long depressing song about sinners going to Hell—the words in English, of course, none of them spoke Cherokee even though Mason claimed to be a full-blood—when all at once there was a Godawful racket from the speakers and then silence except for the voices of the Disciples, trailing off uncertainly as they turned to stare.
Homer Ninekiller and the bass player bent over the silent amplifiers. From the look on their faces Jimmy guessed the breakdown was a major one. He could smell the kind of smoke you got when electric things died.
He felt no serious concern. This sort of thing was always happening at these affairs; the cheap amplifier systems, that were all most Indians could afford, broke down all the time. And, as far as he was concerned, this time was as good as any. Anything that shut the Littlebirds up was okay with him.
Dwight Badwater, though, was speaking to the Disciples, who were still staring at the dead speakers. After a minute they turned back around, while Dwight went into a flatpicking introduction, and began again to sing. Their voices were thin and weak without amplification, but they tried, while Dwight Badwater’s big flattop boomed behind them. There was a burst of applause.
Then, with a sickening cracking sound, the bridge tore clear off Dwight Badwater’s guitar. It happened too fast to see; one second Dwight was sitting there playing big mellow acoustic chords and the next he was grabbing his right wrist, bloody where the lashing strings had cut it, and looking down in disbelief at the splintered top of that beautiful old Martin.
Jimmy Hominy felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Yet something made him turn his head, just at that moment, and when he did he forgot all about old friends and ruined guitars.
Half a dozen men in white suits were coming across the parking area. Behind them, two more men were getting out of a big white van that practically glowed in the dim light. It was too far and too dark to make out faces or details, except for the man in the lead, but that was okay because he was the only one Jimmy was really looking at.
Not that he was anything special to look at; he was just an average-sized man—maybe a little on the short and slender side—in a fancy white suit. But Jimmy Hominy took one look at him, checked his watch again, and shook his head in disgust. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Forgot about daylight saving time.”
The stranger crossed the parking ground with a quick sure step that was almost a swagger. When he came to the edge of the grassy area he stopped. The others coming up behind him stopped too.
He stood for a moment studying the ground at his feet. Then his head came up and turned, slowly, until he was looking straight in Jimmy Hominy’s direction; and he smiled, a wide flash of very white teeth, and stepped forward again. Along the ground on either side of him was a bright blue flash, too fast and too small to see unless you were looking for it, where the medicine line had been.
Jimmy Hominy felt something with cold feet walking up his backbone. As far as he knew there was only one person in all Creation who could do that. Well, okay, two, but he was fairly certain this wasn’t the other one.
The other suits followed their leader through the break in the medicine circle, walking single file, none of them looking down or around. Behind them, shuffling along with hunched shoulders, came Luther and Bobby Sparrowhawk.
Jimmy started to move, to head the strangers off—to tell the truth he didn’t know what the hell he meant to do—but Idabel Grasshopper came up beside him and grabbed his arm. “There you are,” she said in the way of somebody finding a missing possession. “Look, who’s that? Don’t they look handsome.”
The strangers were standing beside the stage now, while the leader spoke to Eli Blackbird, who nodded and then climbed up on the truck, raising his hands for attention. “Good news,” the preacher shouted over the growing noise of the crowd. “We’ve got a new group here, and they’ve brought their own equipment. Soon as they get set up, we’ll go on with the singing.”
